


Contemplation

by Foxtrots



Series: Beginnings and Endings [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Pining John, Pining Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-14
Updated: 2016-12-14
Packaged: 2018-09-08 11:21:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8842771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Foxtrots/pseuds/Foxtrots
Summary: Sherlock is faced with the task of looking after Eleanor.





	1. Chapter 1

“Thanks. I wouldn't have asked if it wasn't an emergency.”

_You were the last person I contacted_  went unsaid.

John dropped the diaper bag down on the floor and ever so gently placed Eleanor's carrier on the ground, the baby in question tucked in a few layers of blankets, sound asleep. Sherlock didn't look up from the Bunsen burner's flame. John cleared his throat. “Everything you'll need is in the diaper bag. Food, toys, clean clothes, her soother...” he trailed off when he realised Sherlock was still ignoring him. Maybe leaving Eleanor here was a bad idea. Knowing Sherlock, he'd forget she was even here and take off, leaving her behind. But what choice did he have? “I shouldn't be long. Any problems, just text me, alright?” Silence. “Sherlock!”

“Yes. Yes, fine,” was the monotone response.

When John left the baby continued to be ignored. Sherlock adjusted the burner's flame, putting his mind back to the experiment at hand. The flat was filled with silence. Time passed. But Sherlock didn't worry about the passage of time. Time didn't matter to him. Not when he lacked a regular sleep schedule and had Mrs Hudson fix him meals. As far as he was concerned, time simply didn't exist.

But to Eleanor, time was very important. Her life had a specific rhythm to it. She knew exactly when her feedings would happen, knew precisely when she'd be put down for her nap. Timing was important in her life. She was more exact than any clock, and right now she knew without a doubt in her mind that it was dinner time. Normally, by this time, she'd be held in her parent's arms and given a warm bottle of milk to drink. She'd get her back rubbed and a gentle voice would speak to her. But none of this happened. She was still in her carrier. No one was cuddling her. And she most certainly knew she wasn't drinking a delicious bottle of milk.

The cry Eleanor gave made Sherlock jump, nearly knocking over the Bunsen burner. The wail took him out of his trance and that was when he realised the flat was already dark. The day had gone by. Eleanor was still here. John was still gone. To the best of his ability, he ignored the child, trying to focus on his work, but her cries grew louder and she began to unhappily kick her legs. Her voice was shrill and filled the room with head-throbbing noise, noise, noise. And against all possibility, her voice grew louder and hit an octave higher and Sherlock was certain his own head would burst from the sound and there was just noise and he couldn't even see straight or think clearly, but the wail continued until –

“Shut up!”

The noise immediately stopped. The baby stared at Sherlock, a look of sheer surprise plastered to her tiny face. She began to gnaw on her fingers, deciding what to do next. That decision however, didn't take long to make. The cries began again, just as shrill as before and Sherlock couldn't ignore it. Couldn't retreat to his mind palace to find some quiet. So he ventured over to the diaper bag and pulled out a bottle. It was wrapped in a towel, cuddled up against other bottles to keep warm. Sherlock sat beside the carrier and pressed the bottle against Eleanor's slightly parted lips. She latched on, but when Sherlock released his grip from the bottle, it fell from Eleanor's lips. She gave a frustrated squeal. Sherlock tried again, but the bottle kept slipping away from her weak grip. Even when he placed her hands against the bottle, trying to encourage her to hold it, it didn't work. Eleanor began to wail again and Sherlock flinched as the noise struck him like a slap to the face.

New plan. What would John do? John could fix this.

Sherlock unbuckled Eleanor from her carrier and placed his hands under her armpits and lifted. She was heavier than expected and her moving around made it difficult to keep a firm grip on her.

_Watch the head. Always watch the head._

Sherlock sat on his chair and awkwardly held Eleanor in his arms. Then he pressed the bottle to her lips, this time holding it upright for her. She quieted and began drinking, finally content. As she sucked on the bottle, her eyes latched onto his. Her large blue eyes, filled with curiosity, always taking in the world around her. She was pretty. She checked all the boxes of looking cute: chubby cheeks, rosy cheeks, big eyes, soft lips, fair thin hair. She looked healthy and obviously had a good appetite. She was probably the definition of a perfect baby.

As she continued on the bottle, Sherlock gently caressed his finger across her cheek. This was the reason John had decided to stay with Mary. Had there been no baby, no pregnancy, he would have left Mary. But the chance to have what he always wanted – a family – made him see past all the wrongs she had done.

And a family was something Sherlock could never offer him.

Their baby would have a head of dark curls and a knack for getting into mischief. A stubborn baby who would keep them up for endless nights. A fighter. A soldier. But that baby, that image of all the perfect features of Sherlock and John combined was impossible. It was pointless to even think of such things.

“It's your fault, isn't it?” he whispered to the child as she finished the bottle. “If you were never here. If you were never born I'd have...” he trailed off. It was pointless to blame a baby for simply existing. To have her carry this fault on her shoulders before she could even sit up on her own. To hate a child who did nothing wrong. And if anyone had done something wrong, it was Sherlock. If only he had said something before the marriage. Had told John he wasn't dead. Had prevented him from meeting Mary, this whole situation would have been reversed. But he didn't, did he?

And it was pointless to think about things you should have done. 


	2. Chapter 2

John rubbed his eyes as he collapsed into the back of the cab. It had been a long night. A stupidly long night.

When the seat belt was on, he stared into his lap, looking at his folded hands. It took him nearly a minute to realize the cabbie was staring at him, waiting for an address.

“Oh...” John muttered his home address, only to blurt out a different one minutes later, causing the cabbie to make a U-turn. A few other cars honked at him as he cut them off. John nearly forgot to pick up Eleanor.

“Rough night?” the driver asked, adjusting his rear-view mirror.

“Yeah.”

John stared out of the window as the streets of London passed by in a blur. Just mere hours ago he was stuck in the hospital's waiting room, rubbing his clammy hands together as he just waited. A few crumpled magazines sat on the sad grey table in the middle of the room, but John ignored them. Reading wouldn't help his nerves. Nothing could help his nerves.

It was only when John was finally able to see her that he let out that long breath he had been holding. She was stable. She was somewhat awake and her eyes latched onto John's as he entered the room. 

“What are you doing here?”

John could barely recognize his sister. Most days he forgot he even had a sister. She became a memory in his mind rather than a person, and he had every reason to think of her as such. She didn't show up at the wedding or come see the baby. Never sent birthday cards or Christmas cards. It was as if she didn't exist. Her surprise was justified.

“Got a call,” he quietly replied. Apparently he was still listed as her next of kin. It was a bit of a surprise getting a call to hear his sister was in the hospital. The bigger surprise was John's sudden urge to visit her.

They barely spoke. The conversations they did had were short and felt strained. John's leg started to ache and Harry grew tired and struggled to stay awake.

“I should go then,” he said quietly. “Pick up Eleanor.”

“Who?”

John left without saying another word.

* * *

 

When the cab arrived at the flat, he instructed the driver to wait and keep the meter running. Sherlock would be pleased to get rid of the child. After a long day that's all he needed – Sherlock scowling at his daughter, pretending to forget her name, acting as if even looking at her would make him ill.

“Before you say anything, I know I was gone longer than expected,” John announced as he strolled into the flat, nearly expecting Sherlock to throw the baby directly at him. Sherlock would complain, possibly go on a rant that he wasn't a babysitter and why didn't John just call a babysitter over. Surely there was some teenage girl on the street who could do with extra spending money. Because Sherlock obviously had better things to do than look after a child. The cases were important – his work was important but Eleanor didn't mean a thing do him, did she?

The sight John saw before him was a surprise.

Eleanor was out of her carrier and sitting in Sherlock's lap, leaning against him for support. Sherlock was staring at his phone, but he wasn't sending out texts. Instead, he was reading. It took John a moment to figure out what exactly Sherlock was reading to the child, but it finally dawned on him: Sherlock was reading John's blog. Eleanor seemed interested in the story as she chewed on her fingers. There was something about the sight, something about Sherlock reading to Eleanor, engaging with her that seemed fitting. As if Sherlock had always spent his evenings reading to her. As if they were a perfect little family and for a moment, John felt like he was part of that family. It looked right and it felt right and suddenly the thought of taking Eleanor away from Sherlock and getting her home filled him with dread.

John took a tentative step inside of the flat and Sherlock stopped reading and stared at the intruder. A look of embarrassment flashed across his face and he put the phone down.

“Harry's going to be alright, I take it?” Sherlock asked as he rushed Eleanor back into her carrier, strapping her in. John didn't bother to ask how Sherlock knew that.

“Yeah. Yeah for now, anyway.”

Sherlock straightened out his shirt as he glanced down to Eleanor. She looked unhappy to be suddenly in her carrier, away from the attention she was getting. “I'm sure it's past her bedtime.”

“Yeah.” John picked up the carrier and swung the diaper bag around his shoulder. “I take it the two of you got on okay?”

“Yes. Fine.”

“Did she cause any trouble?”

“No.”

John glanced down at his child, feeling as though he had spoiled a perfect moment. Part of him wanted to assure Sherlock that it was fine if he wanted to hold Eleanor. But he knew if he suggested such a thing, Sherlock would only turn that suggestion down. Though he did make a note of leaving Eleanor alone with him again. Maybe he just needed one-on-one time to get to knew her, to appreciate her. John adjusted his grip on the carrier and made his way to the door, a small grin on his lips. “I'll see you around, then,” he said quietly.

Sherlock hummed. “And John? Never ask me to look after her again." 

 

**Author's Note:**

> The trailer made me do it.


End file.
